Scars
by Mere
Summary: Diane Evans POV, Michael-centric angstfic


AUTHOR'S NOTES: I wrote this pre-independence day, so it doesn't fit with   
that ep. No spoilers really. Just dug this up on my hard drive and thought   
I'd share.  
FEEDBACK: PLEASE! I'm begging.  
  
  
*******************  
  
I saw the scars today.  
  
The door to Max's room was closed when I came to vacuum, but the kids had   
already left for school, so I pushed it open without knocking. I thought no   
one else was in the house. I was wrong.  
  
Michael's bare back was to me, and the first thing I noticed was the   
broadness of his shoulders. When had the skinny, silent boy grown into a   
man?  
  
The second thing I saw was his worn jeans, the label clearly visible with no   
shirt's hem covering it. Max's favorite brand. Max's old jeans.  
  
It was only third that I noticed the scars. Jagged and uneven, the thin   
white lines ran down his back - over his shoulder blades, across his spine.   
Some overlapped, none were recent. One place near his left shoulder had ten   
or more short, straight lines crisscrossed. Most were healed neatly, while   
others were rough and strange.  
  
I didn't know I had gasped until he whirled around, eyes angry. He said   
nothing to me but the look on his face gave my gut that familiar twist and I   
had to drop my eyes. I watched his hands - large hands, plain silver rings   
- clench in fists, then relax. I raised my eyes to his face once more and   
the rage was gone, replaced with the usual expression of wary defiance.  
  
As usual in a situation I don't know how to deal with, I tried to fill the   
silence with words. "Oh, Michael! I didn't realize you were here! Why   
weren't you at breakfast with us? I made waffles with chocolate chips -   
they were delicious. There are a few left over, if you're hungry. Waffles   
are my specialty."  
  
He continued to look at me as if I was speaking a foreign language. "Um,   
I'm not really hungry."  
  
His stomach growled, giving away his lie. I smiled with my mouth and turned   
around. "Great, I'll see you in the kitchen in five minutes. You can   
finish changing while I heat up the food."  
  
I left the room before he had time to object. Quickly reheating breakfast,   
I tried not to think about what I just saw. If I didn't think about it, it   
wouldn't be real. I would make Michael breakfast and everything would be   
better. I would make him breakfast and be absolved.  
  
He walked in quietly, his bare feet making close to no noise on the thick   
carpet. I looked up and give him another false smile which he didn't   
return.  
  
He pulled out a chair and sat down, and I put the plate of food in front of   
him along with syrup and a bottle of tabasco. I've learned after ten years   
not to question the kids' eating habits.  
  
I could think of nothing to say as I watched him eat. He chewed slowly,   
waiting a minute between bites, as if he wasn't hungry at all. Had he   
always eaten that way? So reluctant to show that he needed food, that he   
needed anything?  
  
My mind brought forth a memory long forgotten. Isabel and Max bringing   
Michael home for the first time, in shabby clothes, badly needing a haircut.   
Isabel introducing him as "our brother." Michael flinching away at my   
touch.  
  
He always refused any gifts, anything I offered. The only kindness he would   
accept was Max and Izzy's, and even then, grudgingly. I couldn't understand   
why my children - my beautiful, sweet children - were friends with a boy   
like that. "Sullen," Philip called him. "Dangerous," I added in my head   
but was too much of a hypocrite to say out loud.  
  
I've always prided myself on my open-mindedness, always given a little money   
each year to charities. Always told my kids that they should help people   
less fortunate than themselves, and then how did I act? Turned a blind eye   
when a child who was in real need, even real danger, was right in my own   
home.  
  
Am I such a terrible person? Do I really only give aid when the needy come   
begging, when they debase themselves before me? How can I say I never knew   
what went on in that endless string of foster homes?  
  
Today I saw the scars, and I can't pretend any more.  
  
Michael would never go swimming with the other children. He sat at the edge   
of the pool, fully dressed, never removing his shirt even on the days when   
the sun beat down so hard that being outside and dry was unbearable.  
  
I told myself he was afraid of the water.  
  
I know exactly when Max and Isabel stopped referring to him as their   
brother, although I also know they never stopped thinking of him that way.   
It was when they were nine, and my daughter recognized that pain that   
flashed across my face whenever she called him that. The guilt that I   
couldn't contain.  
  
After that, it was "our friend Michael," or, during her anti-boys phase,   
"Max's friend." Even when she refused to acknowledge her friendship with   
the boys, she still spent her free time with them. She never stopped   
treating him like family.  
  
They were twelve when Philip walked in on Michael asleep in Izzy's bed with   
our daughter curled up against him. He had a black eye that day, the day   
when my husband declared to the family (Michael had been sent home) that   
THAT BOY was no longer welcome in his daughter's room.  
  
He told me that night that he was worried about her, that Michael was a bad   
influence on the kids. I didn't contradict him. I was just as scared.  
  
I snapped out of my reverie to see that Michael had finished the food and   
was looking around uncomfortably. I stood up and gathered the dishes,   
putting them in the dishwasher while starting to talk again.  
  
"Well, I hope you liked those. Better get going now if you want to be on   
time for second hour!"  
  
He cleared his throat and looked down. "Uh, yeah," was his reply as he put   
his shoes on and grabbed the coat which lay on the couch. He left the house   
as quickly as he could.  
  
I pretended that I thought he was actually going to school.  
  
That was two hours ago, and now I'm back in Max's room doing the vacuuming I   
started earlier. Under his bed, there's a sleeping bag which never gathers   
dust.  
  
I pretend I never noticed that.  
  
Tonight I'll tell Philip, and he'll grunt and say that THAT BOY probably   
just fell or something, that if he was in trouble he should have asked for   
help.  
  
I'll nod and pretend I think my husband's right.  
  
Tonight, I'll have nightmares about Max as a little boy being hit with a   
belt, and I'll tell myself that it's an impossible, ridiculous idea.  
  
Tomorrow I'll make breakfast for my husband and children and pretend we're   
the only people in the house.  
  
But some day I'll see Michael out of the corner of my eye. THAT BOY, that   
untrusting, difficult, angry young man, and in my heart I'll know.  
  
I saw the scars, and I can't pretend any more. 


End file.
